


only here for just a moment in the light

by princessoftheworlds



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Children of Earth Compliant, M/M, Season/Series 02, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: As if Jack Harkness would forget Ianto Jones. As if Jack Harkness would not return for Ianto Jones.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83





	only here for just a moment in the light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [transjackianto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjackianto/gifts).



> Blame Kai for this. He brought this up during a Twitter exchange and then fleshed this out in my DMs. He essentially ghostwrote this lmao.
> 
> Also, thanks to Bel for editing and making those extra wonderful suggestions that really helped with this and made it sadder.

Lazy sunlight drifts in through the flimsy curtains that shade the large window, flooding the entire bedroom with brightness as the sun rises higher and higher in its heeding of time. The two men, tangled so tightly under the sheets that one would not be able to tell where the other begins, stir with grumbling that slowly turns to soft kissing and affections murmured against warm skin.

Ianto Jones forces himself from the welcoming arms of Jack Harkness with a reluctance and self-control both men wish he lacked; it’s not that Ianto wouldn’t be content to lie in Jack’s arms in bed, in  _ their bed,  _ all day, but they have places to be. 

Well, Jack, leader of Torchwood as he is, has places to be, a UNIT conference specifically. Ianto, on the other hand, has vague plans for cleaning the mess that his flat has become and later a Star Wars or James Bond movie. Perhaps even a bottle of whisky or wine from Jack’s extensive alcohol collection with Ianto’s name on it.

“Get up, you lazy bastard,” he murmurs against Jack’s mouth as Jack pulls him back in for another teasing, affectionate kiss, placing a steady, warm hand at the nape of his neck, the bare skin of their chests and legs brushing together enticingly. 

“No,” replies Jack stubbornly, pouting up at Ianto when Ianto finally successfully slips away, pulling on his pants from where he’d left them crumpled on the floor last night. Jack looks so goddamn delectable lounging against the headboard of the bed, sheet pulling in his lap, muscled chest and miles of golden skin on full display, brilliant blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “I have hours before the conference begins.”

“You’ll find traffic on the motor ways,” Ianto reminds him. “Go shower. I’ll whip you up some coffee.”

The promise of Ianto’s coffee is enough to lure Jack out of their bed, and Ianto watches in amusement, not offering even the slightest iota of help, as Jack stumbles around, pulling his regular trousers and a fresh blue shirt from the closet before checking the various dresser drawers for his braces, to no avail.

“Your braces are in the  _ other _ dresser,” Ianto says, for which he receives a swift kiss from Jack as the other man finally enters the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Surprisingly, there is no invitation to join him in the shower, which Ianto briefly mourns, before journeying to the kitchen.

His beloved coffee machine purrs and hisses with steam as he expertly works it through brewing two masterful cups of coffee for the flat’s newest inhabitant and for himself. He pours one into a battered thermos Jack swears has been engineered with heat-preserving technology from Gopon Seven, a planet near Pyrovillia before leaning back to sip his own cup and survey his living room.

It’s not so much of a mess as it was yesterday, the couch finally shifted back into place, although the coffee table still waits in the spare bedroom, ready for a spare coat of paint and some reinforcing if Jack is really as handy with tools as he promises. (He made a great number of innuendos when Ianto first asked.)

Actually, the flat hasn’t changed that much since Jack first moved in a few days ago with his single suitcase and rucksack full of other assorted possessions. Every one of Jack's belongings fit perfectly into place alongside Ianto’s, and that made the Welshman’s heart sing with pride.

Ianto finishes his coffee, his remaining morning grogginess overtaken by the faint burst of energy from the caffeine, and rinses the cup, turning just in time to find himself pressed against the kitchen counter by a sudden Jack.

“Hi,” Jack says, snaking a warm hand under the waistband of Ianto’s sweats to clutch at his hip. The other hand goes around Ianto’s waist as Jack buries his head, damp hair soaking through the thin fabric of Ianto’s t-shirt, in the crook of Ianto’s shoulder. 

“Hi,” replies Ianto when Jack lifts his head and leans in to snog him thoroughly before snapping away to investigate the thermos full of coffee, leaving Ianto breathless, just as he’s always been able to.

Twenty minutes later, fifteen of which consist of Jack returning to snog Ianto against the kitchen counter, Ianto finally pushes Jack out the door, thermos in hand, keys to the SUV in his greatcoat pocket.

* * *

After a round of thorough cleaning and a long, steamy shower where the only element missing is a solid-bodied Jack, all thanks to a quiet Rift day, Ianto decides to treat himself to a few hours at his favorite coffee shop, the one where he buys the beans he uses for the machine in the Hub.

The coffee shop is still on the Plass but always features a long queue, which is why he goes there so infrequently and mostly has the coffee beans delivered, but he dresses in a casual shirt and light jacket with jeans and enjoys the brief walk over. The sun is out and shining, and there is only a light breeze, rare for this time in Cardiff.

He joins the back of the queue and watches the Plass as he waits for his turn to order. There are children playing around, screaming and shrieking as they chase each other. An elderly woman seated on a bench tosses out bits of her chips onto the cobblestone for nearby squawking seagulls. Couples stroll past hand-in-hand, and tourists snap pictures of each other posing by the water tower. Further towards the bay, there are a few more benches scattered about, mostly empty except for one, where a sole figure with a familiar broad set of shoulders and back but an unfamiliar shock of silver hair sits.

Ianto narrows his eyes.

He finally approaches the counter and orders, emerging from the coffee shop with a tray of two coffees and brown paper bag in hand before approaching the figure on the bench. 

“How long has it been for you?” he asks conversationally as he settles on the bench besides the figure.

“Oh, too long,” says Jack Harkness as he turns to face Ianto. “I passed five digits not too long ago.” He grins his familiar wry grin, but there is pain in the curves of his lips, sorrow in those gorgeous ancient eyes Ianto saw mischievous and happy only this morning. “Time flies when you’re having the time of your life.”

“Times of your life, more like it,” Ianto replies, passing Jack his coffee; their hands brush against each other’s, and Jack stills for just a moment, as if needing an excuse to keep touching Ianto. Ianto notes the faint flecks of dark among the silver, the laugh lines around Jack’s mouth, the bags under Jack’s eyes before gesturing up to Jack’s hair. “I like the silver.”

“Distinguished but still sexy?” teases Jack with a soft smile, making a private joke to himself. He takes a sip of the coffee and makes a small noise of content, eyes fluttering shut. “It was good but never as good as yours.”

They slip into the familiar comfortable silence as Jack continues sipping at his coffee until the paper cup is drained. Ianto takes sips of his own before tearing off and eating small bits of the pastry he bought, just for something to do. He offers a piece to Jack, who shakes his head in refusal.

Finally: “How are you, Ianto?” Jack asks, and he stares at Ianto. He looks as if he wants to reach out for Ianto, to hold him, but he doesn’t. Ianto wants to reach out to him, take Jack’s face between his hands and whisper those affirmations of love he’s been slowly realizing these last few weeks. His fingers twitch to do exactly that, but he forces them to still, forces himself to show the same restraint that Jack is.

“I’m with you,” Ianto says, shrugging. “With you, by your side, there’s no better place I could be. No place I would rather be.”

A shadow passes over Jack’s expression at Ianto’s reply, his eyes briefly being consumed by their pain, but he swims forward through it, affecting a smile. “Funny,” he begins. “I may not necessarily act like it, but right now, living with you, leading our team, is among the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Ianto cocks an eyebrow, surprise flickering through him like a slippery wise. “ _ Really? _ ” In all the years of his long life, twenty-first century  _ Torchwood _ is what Jack longs for?

Jack nods. His voice drops to a whisper, and Ianto’s heart thuds with each name he takes. “I lost you all. Every single one of you. Owen, Tosh, Gwen,  _ you. _ ” He turns to Ianto, faint tears glimmering in the corners of his eyes. “Every single one of you. You were my first team. I chose you, you all chose me. And I let you down. Lost you. I couldn’t protect you when it counted.”

“Why… how are you telling me this?” Ianto asks in a hushed whisper. His hands are balled into fists by his side, nails digging into his skin. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll cause a paradox? How… why?”

“Because I always tell you,” Jack replies, and it takes a moment for the significance of his words to hit Ianto like a blow to the chest, but Jack is already continuing on, “and because you deserve to hear it, deserve to know how much I loved you.” He smiles wetly, tears beginning to flow down his cheeks, leaving damp trails. “All of you.” He reaches up a jacket sleeve to wipe his face. The lack of the greatcoat has never been more obvious.

This isn’t Ianto’s Jack, even if he once was. This Jack has lived at least a thousand years without Ianto Jones and will live several thousand more.

“I know you didn’t bring Owen back for the morgue password,” Ianto tells Jack softly. “I know you see him like a brother. I know you didn’t want to lose him so soon, but I see the way it’s hurting you, that you only brought him back halfway, incomplete.” 

He sighs, breath catching in his lungs as he attempts to force the words out. This is hard to say, hard to voice, and he’s not even saying to  _ his  _ Jack. And he doubts he ever will. But it needs to be said. He needs this promise. 

“If you did that to me, Jack, it would kill you. You wouldn’t be able to stand seeing me like that.” Now, it’s his turn to smile sadly. “One day. One day, Jack, I’ll probably die young, just like you told me, but that day...that day, please don’t bring me back if I’ll come back like Owen.” His voice breaks, and he’s forced to glance away, tears burning at his eyes. “If I die, let me stay dead, but promise to remember me. Carry my memories with you.”

“I promise,” replies Jack, and he holds Ianto’s stare as Ianto begins to feel hollowed out, begins to feel drained. Jack smiles sadly. “I promise that I’ll try.”

* * *

The door to the flat unlocks with a quiet jingle of keys and slowly swings open inwards, and the same two men who woke up this morning in bed step inside, except one man has been further carved by time. 

“Oh,” Jack breathes as his gaze casts over the physical evidence of the happy life he once led with Ianto, the paper boxes folded near the door that belong to the new furniture waiting in the second bedroom to be assembled, the rack of shoes with the extra pair of current Jack’s brown boots and dress shoes, the odd trinket from his long life set on the mantle or bookshelf, the coat rack bearing Ianto’s but with a conspicuously missing spot for Jack’s greatcoat. His eyes remain fixed where the greatcoat usually hangs.

He once had a life with Ianto Jones, a life he had cherished and idolized, memories he dreams of when he falls asleep. It is not as if he hasn’t lived more life, met others, fell in love or wedded them, lived with them, but he could have had all that with Ianto, had the chance not been stolen from him.

Ianto’s eyes follow Jack’s gaze to the coat rack.

“What happened to it?” he asks, then clears his throat with a sudden, raspy cough. “The coat, I mean. What happened to it?”

Jack shrugs, flashing Ianto a proud smile. “I kept it. I still have it. It’s kept safe in a stasis box, because it was starting to wear thin.” He whirls around to face Ianto, admitting, “I didn’t want it to be destroyed. It was the last gift I received from somebody before they died.”

Ianto glances away, too many thoughts and emotions flickering through his mind for him to settle upon and verbalize one. Finally: “I’m glad that someone took over my role as your butler. That coat was too memorable to be destroyed.”

When he glances up at Jack, he finds that Jack is shaking his head, chuckling. “Oh, I missed you, Ianto Jones,” he sighs. 

“Old age has made you oddly emotional,” Ianto jokes awkwardly, slightly uncomfortable around a Jack who seemingly wears his emotions on his sleeve, at least compared to  _ his _ Jack.

For the first time, Jack steps close to Ianto, bringing his hands up slowly to cradle Ianto’s face, touch so gentle and hesitant as if Ianto will turn to mist between his fingers and slip away. Jack’s thumb strokes along Ianto’s cheekbone, warm fingers curling against his skin, tilting his face just the slightest bit upwards. His eyes rove over Ianto’s features ravenously, and then he steps forward just a bit more and brushes his lips against Ianto’s.

Jack kisses as if he hasn’t kissed Ianto in a thousand years, which Ianto supposes he hasn’t, varying between sweet and intense and passionate; Ianto wraps his arms around Jack and pulls him close, struck with a sudden possessiveness. He does not want to let go of Jack if he ever can; he will not let go. He will bury himself inside Jack and cling to his bones until Jack is forced to carry Ianto and Ianto’s ghost and Ianto’s memories with him. 

And he knows that he does.

Clothes are stripped, trailing the path from the living room floor to the bed. Jack is pushed onto said bed, and Ianto clambers above him, mouth brushing across every expanse of smooth skin, hands ghosting everywhere. In return, an enthusiastic Jack runs his own hands along Ianto’s body before flipping them over. He mouths down Ianto’s chest, pale and hairy and with those bits of softness that Ianto hates but he never minded, and then there’s a warm mouth around Ianto’s cock doing all sorts of wicked things.

Ianto comes with a hand rooted in Jack’s silky hair and crying out Jack’s name. Jack’s eyes are glittering brightly with indecipherable emotions, but as he lets Ianto push him back into the sheets and open him up gently and sink his cock inside him, Ianto wishes this moment would never end.

It would be too crude to call what occurs between the two men making love; it is something purer, something beyond our capacity for words. It is reverence, it is remembrance, it is adoration, it is mourning. It is all of these and none of these and everything in between, and most importantly, it is love. 

Jack is silently yet openly weeping as Ianto’s slick hand wraps around his cock and brings him to his climax. One more thrust of his hips, and Ianto spills his release again. 

Stories are whispered into each other’s skin, the rest of the bed spent lying in each other’s arms. It matters not what is said, just that it is said to each other. Time, the cruel, tricky bastard, is kind to Jack and Ianto for once, but still, in the blink of an eye, hours have passed. The sky outside is dark.

“It’s getting late,” Ianto says reluctantly, voice raspy from his constant murmuring. “Your current version must be making his way back soon now.”

It’s not a dismissal, but it is the beginning of a goodbye. 

“Yes, yes, he must,” Jack replies, and as one Jack had this morning, shifted away from Ianto’s grasp with great reluctance. “Would you like me to make you some coffee? Give you a few minutes to neaten everything out?”  _ Give you some time to grieve, _ he means. 

Ianto attempts a wet smile. “That’s my line.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, and thus, they have effectively swapped roles. “I assure you, my coffee has improved.”

“I’ll take some water instead,” Ianto says, glancing down towards his feet. “If you don’t mind.”

“No problem.”

He disappears to the kitchen, and Ianto sets to work piecing himself back together where Jack had broken him apart.

Far too quickly, Jack reappears, clear glass of water in hand, and Ianto takes it, sipping from it slowly. Jack cards a hand through his hair. 

“I’ll miss you, Ianto Jones,” he says eventually with too much finality for this to be anything but a goodbye. 

With a sickening lurch, Ianto comes to an awful realization. “No,” he says quietly. “No, don’t.” He glances up towards Jack, eyes brimming with tears. “ _ Jack, no. Please. _ ”

Jack smiles, but it’s an awful smile, a pained expression unlike the smile he wore when he first saw Ianto out on the Plass only hours ago. Ianto never wants to see that smile on Jack’s face ever again, for as long as he lives. “It’s too late, Ianto. I had to.”

The glass of water nearly slips from Ianto’s trembling fingers, but Jack catches it just in time and places it on the bedside table. 

Ianto’s weeping again now, eyes wide, mouth parted. Jack pulls him close, holding him, and they stay like that for the longest moment as Ianto sobs into Jack’s side. Slowly yet surely, he begins to slump slightly, body becoming heavy with the luring call of sleep; the sedative Jack mixed into the water alongside the Retcon must finally be kicking in.

Gently, Jack lowers Ianto back onto the bed he’d only just made, stroking loving fingers over the planes of his face, across his lips, pausing at that button nose he adores. 

“I love you, you bastard, Jack Harkness,” Ianto slurs, the clever light momentarily fading from his eyes. Then Ianto succumbs to sleep.

“I love you too, Ianto,” Jack tells him, feeling just the slightest bit hollow. “I never did forget you, not even after a thousand years, and I don’t think I ever will.”

Then Jack Harkness strides out of the flat he once shared with Ianto Jones, leaving behind half of his heart.

* * *

Several thousand or so years later, Jack Harkness sits and waits beside Ianto Jones’s bedside.

Millions of heartbeats pass Jack by, but yet he, the dutiful lover, waits. And finally, a soft gasp echoes from his side, and he glances down, smile wide, eyes sparkling.

Ianto whips his gaze from the smooth walls of this unfamiliar spaceship to the familiar sight of Jack seated beside him. “Jack?” he asks in bewilderment, eyes wide with fear that slowly fades as he takes in the familiar greatcoat Jack wears. Faint memories drift back - the Hub exploding, finding Jack a new greatcoat, the 456, his body weakening in Jack’s arms in Thames House.

He had died,  _ hadn’t he? _ Had begged for Jack to remember him.

“Told you I wouldn’t forget you,” Jack quips, and his smile grows. “I found a different way to bring you back.” Then he winks at Ianto. “The twenty-first century passed us by while you were sleeping. Welcome to the future. You’re gonna love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). I tweet and reblog mostly Torchwood with occasionally amusing commentary on nonsense. Please come talk to me and tell me if/how much you like my fic or like ask me about it on tumblr; all my schoolwork has become remote now, and I have limited social interaction.


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